Her Sister's Keeper
by Lasgalendil
Summary: Maggie Kyle lies senseless in ICU, and a young man comes to SVU, falsely accusing a community hero of a heinous crime. ADA Rachel Dawes must separate fact from fiction, while a sister seeks her own justice. Frank Miller retelling in Nolanverse.
1. The Actors Therein

**"The world's a stage but the play is badly cast." -Oscar Wilde  


* * *

**

Money changed hands.

…Like it has for centuries. Millennia. Shells, furs, hides, gold, thin cotton strips stamped with former presidents…much and yet nothing has changed. And that is the sum of all man's evils: he is mortal, and desires much. It is the only explanation for all the senseless, irreparable atrocities of the twentieth century amidst those unprecedented decades of social advancement and equality. War. Genocide. Piracy…there is little, little that man will not do for money. For money he will turn a blind eye to poverty, cruelty, and acts of even the most heinous nature. For money he too, will join in, complicit, silent, or perpetrator….

Even Judas betrayed the Savior for merely thirty pieces of silver.

But this is Gotham City, not Palestine. But even here a man may be tempted by the feel of a fat leather wallet and the shine of diamonds in the night. Thomas and Martha Wayne lie cold and dead under the weight of dark earth in the old South Side Cemetary, their legacy, their kindness, their hope for Gotham no more than memory. Falcone rules the night, the Wayne heir is five years missing, Rachel Dawes has received her law degree, Professor Crane experiments in the basement of Arkham Asylum with a rare guggal compound extracted from a previously undiscovered flower from the snowy slopes of Bhutan, while thirty thousand dollars in cold, hard cash lie in an envelope at Father Benedict's breast.

The money…has changed hands.

It is 10 pm. October the 31st. Nineteen year old Maggie Kyle stands alone behind the gates of Sisters of Mercy, waiting in safety for the last bus. But she will never make it home. Here in the gateway to the House of God, a man will come behind her and place a knife to her throat, strip her clothes, ravish her brutally and beat her senseless with his bare hands.

It is now 6 am. They find her body, naked and spread, blue from hypothermia, lying still and silent in a shallow pool of her own blood.

It is 7:30 am. Maggie Kyle lies in the ICU ward of Gothem General hospital, her condition critical. Sergeant James Gordon and Arnold Flass are on the scene, telling doctors GCPD recommends performing a rape test. Vicky Vale stands outside the hospital grounds, chasing after the arriving SVU squad car, asking for a statement.

8 am. In the Narrows section of town, seventeen year old Jimmy Connolly wakes alone in his small flat. He has no television, no breakfast, and must borrow fifty cents for a newspaper from a passerby. Within seconds, pale, stringy vomit splatters to the pavement over the tops of his worn out Converse All-Stars. They are the only shoes he has and yet he must walk in them. 235 blocks.

...It is a long way to Gotham General.

It is 2 pm. Maggie Kyle's brutal rape and near murder are broadcasted on every television set in North America. Gordon and Flass watch sickened as they stand guard in Gotham General ICU, joined by a shaking young man who reeks of sweat, petrol, and vomit. He is quickly interviewed, labeled suspect. Yet two hours later the results of a buccal smear DNA swab test by SVU reveal he is neither her assailant nor her biological brother, as he claims. A call to Sisters of Mercy verifies he was raised in foster care with the victim from the age of eight.

4 pm. Sergeant Gordon convinces both GCPD and hospital staff to allow the foster brother monitored access to the victim's room. As far as investigation has shown, he is the only family she has.

It is 5 pm. From the White House press room, the President addresses the nation on the seriousness of hate crimes, promising stricter legislature will be passed. In Gotham City, Rachel Dawes states blatantly to DA Carl Finch that stricter laws will change nothing without judges willing to enforce them. From the Vatican, the Pope condemns this evil as 'a defiance against God'. The world is in uproar.

6 pm. Next to a man who enticed her with the promise of three hundred dollar bills, Selena Kyle lies motionless in a drunken stupor from the last night's activities, the scattered ashes of a still-smoking cigarette spreading from her slumbering hand.

The stage is set, the players moving. The script...will write itself.


	2. A Late Night Call

**"Because in much wisdom there is much grief, and in increasing knowledge increasing pain."**

* * *

**1 AM**

**November 14th**

Even for a Gotham City ADA, it had been a shitty two weeks.

Falcone still ruled the underworld with an iron fist, and FBI's informants claimed the mafia was moving heavily into imported, hard narcotics. Apparently they too were experiencing the tightness of the economic times. Crime rates were up. Drug related violence was up. Because all gangs know the fastest way to sell more drugs wasn't to attract new customers…it was kill the competition. Then Maggie Kyle. Rachel Dawes had arrived at Gotham General a week ago only to be informed that although awake, the young woman went into screaming hysterics at the sight of another human being…even now she was still being weaned off heavy sedatives.

The psychologists and GCPD agreed. For the time being, none of the young woman's confused statements could ever be used in court.

Two weeks. Fourteen days. The young ADA rubbed her aching forehead, caffeine, the late hour, and eyestrain compounding her twinging migraine. A lot could happen in two weeks. Trails grew cold. Witnesses forgot, or worse, colluded. The Kyle case had to be opened before it could ever be brought to court, for the perpetrator to be brought to justice…

Justice. In Gotham City. Now that was a laugh…

Without warning her phone rang. Rachel Dawes put aside her laptop, sat up in bed and dug through her Gucci purse. She brought the phone to her aching eyes: Finch.

He had been calling often, lately. Discussing the details of the Kyle case, asking for new research against Falcone…with a spice of something more. Pressing her, never pressuring, for a little more commitment than mere co-worker. It was the most gentlemanly proposition she had ever received…but a proposition nonetheless. Her personal life was in shambles, every man she tried to connect with chased away by the shadow of her guilt and her grim, hidden hope the Bruce was still alive…

She never had time for her friends or family. Would never find a lover. Already she spent twenty hours a day with Finch, worked with him, ate with him…_why not sleep with him as well? _She mused bitterly.

But she was tired. Tense. Needed a good, strong drink and a guiltless fuck. She answered the phone.

* * *

Wipers churning, head aching, Rachel Dawes parked in front of GCPD headquarters, wrenching the keys viciously from the dash. She opened the door, purse held up above her head to spare her face the cold, pattering rain. Thunder shook the streets and lightning flickered above the skyline. She asked herself what the hell more could possibly go wrong…

…and instantly regretted it.

"Finch, what is it?" She gasped, shedding her long overcoat on a detective's desk. Her hair was plastered to her pale face, and she felt as bedraggled as a drowned cat, still in her clothes from the day before.

Grim, haggard face. He smiled, standing politely on her entrance. He was older, yes. Not unpleasant but not attractive, yet his awkward charm and obvious attention given the late hour, her dripping hair, cold breasts and thin shirt was completely unwelcome. Not to mention the surrounding GCPD officers, both male and female, who would immediately begin assuming things…

_Goddamn being a grown up. _The ADA thought.

"Got some bad news, Rach." Finch said. His solemn expression, tired eyes...he wasn't kidding. And these weren't the faces of the ordinary night shift workers at GCPD headquarters…she had pulled late enough hours this last year to be familiar with all shifts, coming and going. No, this wasn't homicide. Organized crime. No FBI, no narcotics, no Officer Bigheart from GC Public Schools Corporation…

No. The gathered officers were from SVU. Rachel's heart sank. And the presence of a social worker and on-call psychologist Harlene Quintzel only made it worse.


	3. In Fun and Names

**"What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet."**

**Disclaimer: Obviously I don't own any Batman franchise characters. I also don't own Manuel Delgado, I'm simply borrowing him from Beowulfwulf's 'A Psychic Amongst Gotham Psychos'. He just fit this part! Go check him out in that story, and leave a kind review. **

**AN: Warning. Some racially derogatory terms used for educational purposes. **

* * *

**3 pm**

**October 31st**

Manuel Delgado of Gateway Center for Youth only had two rules. Number one, no illegal substances. Period. You got caught on premises selling drugs or smoking tobacco and you were gone. That's it, done. He'd even call the cops if he had too.

The second rule was everyone is welcome. Well, no sex offenders because that was _illegal _and stupid as hell, but you get the point. Anyone, everyone, regardless of race or color or gender or beliefs or whatever...even favorite football team. _Come in, _he'd say, _take a load off your feet, stay as long as you like._

It was Halloween, and the fat, friendly Mexican was having the time of his life, shooting photos of all costumes entering, printing them out and posting them on the walls with one of those little Kodak picture printers. Expensive, yeah. But one of the best damn investments he'd made for the center in some time. Kids loved pictures, even the older ones. The goofier, the better.

And there was no doubt fifteen year olds Shaniqua Alberts and Kandi Ryans looked anything but incredibly goofy.

Were they…Trolls? Were they even old enough to remember those things-? But he supposed it fit with the Halloween feminine repetoire of dress as immodestly as possible. With their many thin braids wired into a cone and spray painted, and overlarge belly button piercings on their nearly naked torsos, they looked unmistakenly like that old line of toy.

The girls strolled in, holding hands, laughing and chatting up a storm about which streets to hit up for tonight's festivities. "Yo, girls!" Mani called, chuckling, "Let me get your pictures!"

"Yo, Mani!" Shaniqua Alberts called. "Like our costumes?" Mani just shook his head, as the girls were well aware that many of the young men in the small center had turned their gaze to express their 'like' for their 'costumes' as well.

From behind the coffee counter, seventeen year old Jimmy Connolly's cheeks blushed flaming pink as the girls approached giggling for their picture. "I hate this holiday." He said.

Kevin Santy, an adult volunteer, grinned. "And why's that, Kid?"

"_Because_." The boy said with special emphasis.

"Because-?" Kevin pressed, hiding a snigger behind the guise of bending and loading the small industrial dishwasher.

"Coffee, girls?" Mani asked, as the duo waited for their picture to print. Coffee at Gateway was always free. Mani's generosity-and his job as a fashion consultant for Gotham Theater and Ballet Company- saw to that.

"Because-" Here Connolly cast a furtive glance to the giggling girls sprawling over the counter to get a better view of their pic, "because girls just use it as an excuse to walk around, you know…" his voice dropped to a horrified whisper. "half-naked."

Shaniqua let out a shriek of laughter, while Kandi just rolled over lusciously and quipped "You _seen_ us, boyfrien'? Cause we be more than _half_ naked!"

Quite uncalled for. But Mani and Kevin couldn't resist bursting into chuckles themselves. The boy's pale face turned a shocking scarlet, but several seconds later even he joined in, shaking his head half-heartedly, then bent to load muffin pans into the hot oven with grease-spattered mitts.

"You girls trick-o-treating for Halloween, or are you staying here to watch the scary movie?" Santy asked, closing the stainless steel washer and setting it to start.

Kandi snorted. "Scary? Hey man, last year you show us a _Disney_ flick!"

Mani laughed good naturedly. Said something about had to be appropriate for all ages.

"Yeah." Joined Shaniqua. "We be goin' out. Weather be nice. An' Gotham City be more than enough scary for one night, yeah?"

"Yeah, Jimmy, you comin' with?" Kandi asked. "What you be?"

"I have to work." He said.

"But what you be? You didn't even dress up for this mornin'?"

"I'm a chef." He gestured to the apron and mitts.

"You so _lame_." Shaniqua moaned. "Dat costume be so terrible."

"It was free." He shrugged.

"True dat." Kandi laughed, then relaxed her perch from the converted bar counter, slippered feet hitting with a soft whump on the tile below.

"Yo, bitch, where you goin'?" Shaniqua called. Both Delgado and Santy exchanged a look.

"That counter rupture my bladder, ho! Gotta take a piss! Be back m'kay?" She blew a kiss and trotted off to the girl's bathroom, wagging her heart shaped booty as she went.

"Why are you calling her bitch, girl?" Mani asked.

"Because it be funny! Like ho, or niggah. People like to use 'em as bad words so we use 'em as good words, you know?"

Kevin Santy nodded, leaning forward against the counter. "Yeah, yeah I know you might think it's funny, but you're in a relationship with her. You shouldn't be calling her derogatory things. Shouldn't even start."

The teenager rolled dark eyes. "I only call her dat when I ain't mad. We kids like it, but you grown ups you ain't never understand."

"It's a bad habit to start." Kevin countered.

"-but we only call each other dat when we ain't _mad_!" Shaniqua said exasperatedly.

Connolly's mild voice rang from under the counter, now struggling to replace the large box of economy muffin mix. "I think-" there was a heavy oof-! as the cardboard box landed firmly on the shelf, "what he's trying to say is you might not now, but it'd make it easier. To do later. Like accidentally."

Santy laughed, the seriousness of the moment evaporating. "Yeah, Good one, Kid." He moved behind the bending boy to fetch the now less frustrated girl's latte, playfully smacking the boy's behind on his way. "That's what we're trying to say."

"Hey, stop." The boy whined in protest. "Or you'll be serving me with the next batch of muffins-"

"Okay." She said, rolling her dark eyes again, but less defensive. "I get it." She took a short sip of the steaming liquid, humming in delight. "Mani, you da bomb!"

The hispanic smiled sadly. "You might not think so in a second, honey. We gotta finish this conversation, okay?"

"You don't like it none, we already be done-" the teenager rapped, eliciting a laugh and even a dance from a now standing, flour-coated Connolly.

Kids. They were great. They were so open, so genuine, they would laugh, dance, cry in front of you if they felt comfortable. And that's what this shelter was all about: giving kids a chance to be comfortable. With themselves. With each other. Mani grew up gay in Gotham City, a place big enough to accommodate all sorts of…what was the politically correct term for it now? Alternative lifestyles? But his community wasn't. Raised strict Catholic, threatened, beaten, forced to confession, even exorcism…disowned, Mani had forgiven his family, loved his old 'manos from the hood, but their intolerance and open hostility still saddened him.

Maybe it had changed now. Perhaps Gotham City was now the American spirit, open arms ready to embrace the hungry, tired, poor, sick and the _different_. But he doubted it.

"-you say I call her names I say it part of our games-"

"Alright, here's the real deal. Honesty zone." Mani said, bringing his hands together. Connolly and Shaniqua stopped, their antics ceased, immediate attention and silence showing their love and respect for the Gateway's keeper.

Honesty zone. Everyone knew that's what Delgado said. Other adults would refer to it as "rules." But Delgado didn't like rules. Inhibitions. Putting people in boxes…that's why the guys and gals restrooms were both painted equally, a shocking midnight violet blue with spatters of yellow, pink, purple and red.

"You know what a bad term for a Mexican is?"

The two kids exchanged glances, worried to say something.

"I know you know." Mani said. "So c'mon. Say it."

Connolly just looked confused. Shaniqua lowered her eyes, mouthed 'spic' into her coffee.

"Yeah. Spic. But the thing is, a bunch of us kids-well, when this old fart was young enough to be a kid-got together and decided, hell, why not be Spics? If people are gonna call us Spics, let's own up to it! So we started calling each other that, and when kids on the playground would yell it at us instead of getting mad we'd just shout thank you (or muchas gracias!)-" here he smiled, "on the top of our lungs. After awhile, no one called us Spics anymore but ourselves. It stopped the problem."

"Like we call each other niggah's." Shaniqua offered timidly.

Mani clapped his thick hands. "Exactly! But there was another problem."

"What?" The kids chorused.

"Not everyone wanted to be a Spic." Santy cut in.

"Yep. He's got it. The white kids and the black kids stopped calling us Spics-heck, some even asked if they could be Spics!-and we got along pretty well. But a whole bunch of other…well, there's so many here in Gotham I won't just generalize them as "Mexicans", but you get my point, people of hispanic, latino, chicano Spanish-speaking decent got upset. Turns out we thought the whole thing was funny…but not everybody we considered Spic wanted to be known as a Spic."

The kids' heads were cocked. They were starting to understand-

"Just like not everybody you'd joke around with, Shaniqua," Mani said kindly, "would take kindly to being called…what you just said. In fact, there's a lot of people out there who would shoot you or stab you if you called them that, am I right?"

The girl nodded. "Well, yeah."

Mani chuckled. "When I first got this place, I wanted to be cool, hip, you know? So I labeled the bathrooms bros and hos, thinking it was funny. But not everyone wanted to be known as a ho. Lot of kids-especially the boys-thought it was really funny…lot of girls cried. Turns out if your mom's boyfriend or her pimp beats her or you, if your sister sleeps around just to keep up on her crack addiction…well, it's not that cool to be known as a ho."

The kids were silent.

"So we don't care what you guys call each other outside of here-" Santy began, but Mani cut him off.

"Actually, I do." The Mexican said. "I care and I care a lot. But _caring_ and being able to _control _are two very different things. Point being, outside, you make the decision yourself. You come to the Gateway…you leave all your bitches and hos and niggers and fags and spics and whatever else outside, okay?" Mani said kindly, yet firmly. "You're good kids. I know you two. I love ya, and I know you'd only ever use those terms jokingly and in fun…but here, you've got to check 'em at the door."

Connolly cleared his throat awkwardly. Shaniqua scratched her lime-colored head and looked away.

"Comprenden?" Mani asked.

"Comprenden." The kids nodded seriously.

"It's _comprendemos,_ have I taught you nothing?" Mani cried, gripping his hair with false conviction. "Now you've done it! We have no choice. Me and Kevin here are gonna whip your asses at phoosball!"

The kids laughed delightedly. "You can try!" Shaniqua shouted, throwing her coffee cup down and racing to the table. Minus apron and mitts, Jimmy joined her, and soon the whole Rec room was crowded around the vicious match, cheers and boos ringing out, chants growing louder and louder from the gathered throng as the four fought for best out of three.

* * *

…Mani, Shaniqua decided later that night, girlfriend's hand in hers, bare bellies filled with sugary sweets, had been right about a lot.

But not _everything._ She and Jimmy had completely pwned his ass in phooseball.


	4. Dangerous Desires

**"When evening came, David arose from his bed and walked around on the roof of the king's jouse, and from the roof he saw a woman bathing; and the woman was very beautiful in appearance. So David sent and inquired about the woman. And one said, 'Is this not Bathsheba, the daughter of Eliam, the wife of Uriah the Hittite?'**

**David send messengers...and took her."**

* * *

**2 PM**

**November 1st**

Fuck.

James Gordon was not a fan of the f word by far. In fact, this counted a total of three times in his life he had used it. The first time had been nineteen years ago, when confirmation came over the scanner that Thomas and Martha Wayne had indeed been gunned down…that report came with only the slightest of relief. Rumor had spread their gun son had been killed as well. Thank God, he had thought, thank God young Bruce had been spared…

It had seemed no one else leant importance to that fact. Too distracted with finding the parent's killer they ignored the living son. So he had done his best-his awkward best-to make the boy comfortable. It was the least of condolences, but the only he could offer…

The second, upon the appointment of his newest partner, Arnold Flass. The man had a reputation for corruption and crassness than sent Gordon's skin crawling. Every night he showered when he got home, refusing to hug or kiss Barb until he had washed the days filth away. Cigars, booze on the beat…the man had even stopped by to get orders from Falcone himself, leaving Jim to stew in the squad car in silence.

The third was now. Maggie Kyle lay unconscious in the ICU ward, her rapist and near-murderer still at large. Forensics had come back, the DNA ran through, and SVU had confirmed she had only been assaulted (at least sexually assaulted) by a single attacker.

Gordon knew crime. Knew sex crime especially. His beginning years with the GCPD had been in SVU, those three years both working third shift, trying to make enough money in the shortest time to pay off their student debt…so Barbara would be able to stay home when they had kids. No kids until the debt was paid. And three years later the bills were gone, the department threw Barb an 'early retirement party' and they took that long honeymoon/vacation they had always wanted.

And he had lain awake all night after they made love, her sleeping body pressed next to his, the hot, humid Florida air making him sweaty and sick. He couldn't do this. Couldn't work this job and think about kids, couldn't satisfy her needs if the thought of sex in any form-even with the woman he loved- made him feel both guilty and queasy…So he had transferred.

But now it was back. All those nightmares and photos and autopsies were back. And he was back in the game, surrounded by filth and garbage and the leftovers of the human cockroaches…

Well, cockroach. A single assailant. One young girl. Dark night. Halloween. Crowds of people in masks, sound of screaming all around…

…no one would notice one more.

Fellow volunteers and the Sisters they had interviewed at the Convent complex said it was common for the young woman now lying so still and silent to be the first one in, the last one out. Every Monday she worked nearly 18 hours for the charity soup kitchen, making her a very vulnerable, very predictable victim.

…there was only one problem. Sisters of Mercy was well-protected. Gordon had seen for himself the grounds, the blood, the still closed gates and the wall of twenty-foot high stone encircling the church and it's outlying buildings like a medieval fort uprooted and placed in the midst of Gotham City. No one could have got in-or out-without coming through the church proper…and he-SvU had affirmed it was a he-would surely have attracted attention.

But that was an enigma for someone else to cipher. Perhaps that one consultant, Nashton-? would be able to crack it. But the fact remained the girl had been brutalized. Purposefully. Powerfully.

…and if Gordon's gut instincts were right, quite Personally. This had been done by someone she knew…or someone who thought they knew her.

"Well, whatever you guys think he ain't all _that _clever." Flass laughed at his puzzlement. "Fucking fag didn't even finish the job right!"

But Gordon didn't believe this rape had ever been intended as a rape/homicide. No, it looked more like the perp had lost control. Not an anger-excitation rape but perhaps anger-retaliatory? Power-reassurance?

McCrary's hypothesis said that behavior reflects personality. Divided actions into four time-periods: antecedent, method/manner, body disposal, and post-crime behavior. Divided rape (and rape related homicide) into four basic categories. Power-assertive, power-reassurance, anger-retaliatory, and anger-excitation. You look at what the perp did. Found out how he thought. Simple as that. Decades before, Keppel had apprehended Ted Bundy using a similar approach.

…but it wasn't so simple, Jim Gordon mused. Because to know how the perp thought you had to think like him…and not lose yourself in the process.

So he said it. The f word. Loud and clear in his brain, although his lips barely mouthed it.

"What's wrong, Gordie?" Flass asked, lighting up in the ICU hallway. "This case got to you already?"

"This is hospital, for God's sake will you show some respect?" Gordon fumed, grabbing the offending cigar and dousing it against the drab painted walls before tossing it away.

"Yeah, Gordie. You're all uptight. This one a little personal? You know the bitch?"

_Victim, you, you…fucking asshole._ There. That made four. "No, Flass." He responded tersely. "I didn't know the _victim_."

"Don't be so stressed, Gordie. Odds are, we'll never find the fucker. He's miles away by now, knows he's got this one in the bag."

No. Flass was wrong. They'd seen the antecedent. Maggie Kyle had been beautiful with her reddish hair and bright green eyes. Her figure was girlish, her smile kind. The sort of person who drew strangers to themselves…

…which was not a point in her favor. They had the antecedent.

They had the method. Small laceration to the throat, the perp had held a knife to her, threatened her life. And Maggie Kyle had surrendered, perhaps even silently, to his rough embrace. The rest had been done by hand, tooth and nail, beating her into submission, seeking the vilest of gratification from her ensuing pleas…

Body disposal. The perp had left her, left her there for the world to see. Stupid way to dispose of a body. Which meant to Gordon it was never intended to have been a body at all. Odds are he thought she was conscious, that she'd get up, squirm away shamefaced, seek help…semen showed the bastard had got what he wanted. His fantasy done, he left her…

…or she grew so still, so still and silent that he was afraid. Panicked. Had never intended to harm her, only hurt her, to make her submit…and it was too late. So he ran, like the coward he was he ran…

Which left post-crime behavior.

"Nope. This guy is miles away by now. Miles away. Probably been poppin' cherries and dumpin' the bitches all across town. Think we've got some sort of sick psycho killer goin' around? You know, the kind that only goes after virgins?"

Yes. SVU had confirmed it. This bastard had taken from her something that should have been hers to give. She was young. Sweet. So innocent…

"I'm tellin' ya, miles away. It'll be blunt police work that brings this one in…hah! In Gotham City? Now there's a laugh-"

No, this perp hadn't come in yet. Possibly never would. It was one or the other. Jim Gordon just couldn't yet decide…

The perp was hiding. He was either hiding in broad daylight, no qualms about what he'd done, disillusioned with his fantasy, it hadn't been as satisfactory as he'd thought, he'd make it better, do it again make it better more real more palpable-

Gordon shuddered. He'd shower again tonight. Run the hot water heater dry and still stand there, scrubbing, scrubbing away until he shivered with cold and Barb knocked on the door, called out in concern-

Or he was scared shitless. Had only meant to take her. Make her his own. Had never meant to actually hurt her…in some sick, twisted way perhaps loved her, had been refused, rejected, ignored, just wanted her to love him back…

A neighbor. Friend. Boyfriend, even, who wanted something she wasn't ready to give…

Either way, the profile was a young man, in his late teens or early twenties. But he just couldn't think about it anymore, wanted the dirty thoughts, pictures, feelings out of his heart, his mind, but he had to know had to think it through had to decide…

A sudden slam. Both cops stood abruptly. For there he was. A dark-haired young man, trembling and pale, splattered in sick that reached down to his shoes, reeking of tears and sweat and vomit.

He staggered down the hall. And Flass-even Flass-immediately moved to apprehend him.


	5. Romance and Reluctance

**"I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for their religion -  
I have shudder'd at it.  
I shudder no more.  
I could be martyr'd for my religion  
Love is my religion  
And I could die for that.  
I could die for you."**

**-John Keats**

* * *

**1:30 AM**

**November 14th**

Rachel sat nervously, taking a pro-offered coffee from Finch's hand. Their fingers brushed, and at the touch his hand jolted, dribbles of hot liquid spattering onto the table, her hand-

"I've got it." She said harshly, wiping her fist with a napkin, small, shiny burns starting to appear. "What is it?"

"I've got a new case." Finch said, sitting across from her. "One I want you to take."

She snorted. "SVU. Social workers. That means it's a kid…Carl-" she used his first name for the first time, "what the hell do you think you're doing? I'm in cases up to my ass right now, and you want to dump this sort of shit on me?" Sexual crime. Little Kid. God, she didn't even want to think about it-

The DA grimaced at that. "Rach…let me explain. That was a poor choice of words. I don't want you to take this case. It sucks. Ass. And I'd take it for you, spare you if I could because I've already seen shit like this before…but I can't"

She was unsure of what he meant…but there was sincerity, sincerity dripping from every word. Not pity. Not a hint of I-want-in-your-pants fake compassion…simply regret. And it went far, far beyond a the selfishness of knowing she'd hate him for this...it was regret. Pure and simple. Reluctance. He hated himself for putting her through it...

Rachel Dawes gulped, setting the hot coffee aside. Her migraine didn't need it anyways…

"Why can't you?"

Here Finch turned his head, motioned for the waiting psychologist.

Psychologist. Rachel sighed. No case in Gotham was complete without one…

"The victim is a minor, therefore under CPS jurisdiction." Harlene Quintzel told her smartly. "I've analyzed a common profile…and my professional recommendation is that this victim be communicated with only by members of the female sex."

Which meant, Rachel knew, that the perp was male. Rapist, molester, it didn't make any difference. She hated these cases. Hated the crimes, but hated the cases as well. Parent's brought their sons and daughters here, hoping for justice…and in Gotham all they got was a jest. Five to twenty years, depending on the crime. With good behavior, many were back out on the streets in less than three.

"Professional _recommendation,_ " Rachel countered, dark eyes flashing against those icy blue ones, "by that are you insinuating mandatory compliance?" _And why didn't you just say so, arrogant bitch? _It was goddamn one in the morning, she was drenched, exhausted, chilled to the bone, uncertain of her feelings for Finch, ready to scream from stress, to vomit from contemplating this case and this immaculate bitch stood over her, cool and calm, discussing a fucked kid as dismissively as discussing the weather.

"CPS would prefer-" the social worker interrupted, "that the child in question be given minimal male contact. If there is a female counterpart at any level of this investigation-" here the austere black woman raised one thin eyebrow "which there is, the case will be deferred to her."

Carl reached out. Fingers laid lightly on top of her own. She didn't meet his eyes...yet understood.

It was the victim that mattered, the victim's needs that defined who and what would happen. Chaos. Uncontrollable. You had to be ready when life sent you curves. And it left DA Carl Finch-left her-with little choice. It would be hers to interview the victim, question witnesses, put together a case, take the perp to court…it would be hers to nightmare, fight, and cry...

…It was Gotham City. It would be hers to lose.

And he would be there for her. In whatever capacity she needed him.


	6. Made to be Broken

**"If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun." -Katharine Hepburn**

* * *

**6 PM**

**October 31st**

Gateway was a great place to be. To be honest, Manuel Delgado liked this 'side job' better than his 'real job'. But his real job supported this rather expensive hobby, so what could he do? Sets and costumes, cloth and fabric…they were fun. Sometimes thrilling. But no matter how many set decorating awards you won, no matter how many gasps of delight from the dance theater's audience at the brilliance of twirling sequins…it just couldn't own up. Those things as measures of success were…childish. Immature. Not to say they didn't have their merits, but they would never again be his muse.

No, his life had a bigger focus now.

But working at a Kid's Center, and especially operating a Kid's Center, had it's downsides, too. There were so many fucking rules, regulations, stuff put into place so kids wouldn't get "hurt." Don't hug. If you have to hug, hug from the side. Never be alone with a kid. No room for separate staff restrooms in the reconverted bar so pay fees for portable toilets in the back alley. Don't give out your number. Don't ever meet outside public activities. Don't get too attached…

Well fuck that. Kids came to Gateway because they had nowhere else to go. Because the mommies and daddies would should have been providing them with kisses and hugs and love had let them down. Would never hold them, talk to them, alone, one-on-one, treat them like the adults they would someday grow up to be…

…the lucky ones, that is. He'd seen the odds. Foster kids, single-parent homes, low income government housing project…some would commit suicide. The ones not in foster care would be taken away. Most would be abused. Some would retaliate, end up in juvenile rehabilitation…that start down the road to prison. He'd seen the odds. Most that went, went again and again and again. Others would die. Gunned down in the streets by gangs fighting for turf. Some would be innocents, more would be gunners themselves. Most had already tasted their first cigarette. Sipped their first beer. The majority could tell you the going price for crack on any given street in a five block area.

So the government gave establishments like his rules. Lists and lists of rules. Do's and don't do's and thou shalt not's, all hoping to "protect the innocence of childhood."

Didn't they see that's what he was trying to do?

But Gateway was his responsibility…and so were all the kids who came here. He had to keep them safe and protected. The same for his volunteers.

Reluctantly Mani entered the rec room, Santy had entered not fifteen minutes before, supposedly in charge of a cleaning task force, armed with brooms, buckets, mops and glass cleaner in search of volunteers. The kids had to clean their own Center, no janitor bill for him. Sometimes he'd hire some of the older ones if they were desperate for a job, more often then not just for resume experience. Gateway didn't leave him with much money left to give, and even if it had, he couldn't justify helping one kid over another. No, most just worked, like Connolly, for an excuse to get out of bed at the same time every morning, some sense of normalcy and responsibility…

But the Quest, as Kevin had joked, had strayed far from it's intended Crusade. Instead of squeaky clean floors he encountered a "joust" of sorts, Santy attacking a group of youngsters with the mop, while they fended him off with other implements in all manners of creative license.

_"Get 'im, Jimmy, get 'im-"_

_"Use the bucket-"_

_"Put it on his head-"_

Catcalls, laughter, play chants of _"fight,fight,fight"_ echoing in the small room. The kids were having a blast…like they were supposed to. Mani stood in the door and laughed, tears rolling down his face as the littlest kids pelted Santy-and unfortunately, given their aim, their own side as well-with sponges and toilet brushes. Certainly not very hygienic, and most certainly not very government approved, but what could you do? But scrawny little Connolly was doing the best, blocking blows with a broomstick while reaching desperately for the passing bucket-apparently the now agreed upon manner of triumph-

_"Yeah! Get 'im!"_

_"Onhisheadonhisheadonhishead-!"_

And for one glorious, silent second of anticipation it looked like the kid's hero would win…then a collective _aw, man!_ rang through the gathered crowd, as Santy's longer, much stronger arms prevailed, bringing the bucket down with finality over Connolly's dark curls.

Cheers. Applause. Mani found himself joining in as Kevin stomped around widely, arrghing and rarrring, pounding his chest and daring any others to defy him…

Then from out of nowhere the victor was vanquished. Connolly whipped the mop bucket from his head, ran behind the now glorying gladiator and jumped as high as his legs would take him. The crowd let out a gasp of laughter, the bucket went cleanly onto Santy's sandy head, and the two collapsed in the slow-falling heap of broom, mop, bucket…and a celebratory hail of toilet sponges from the little kids, just for good measure.

Mani had to sit in the doorframe, clutching his stomach, praying to God he didn't piss his pants.

_"JimmyJimmyJimmy-!" _Their hero waved drunkenly from the floor, one arm held shielding his face, as sponges and the contents of every trash can in the center rained down like confetti.

Yeah, sometimes the business end of running a Kid's Center could really suck…but it was moments like this that made all that shit worthwhile. He'd talk with Santy later. For now, he'd snap a few photos of the Knights of the Trash Brigade, and make sure everyone's hands got thoroughly washed.


	7. Bette Davis Eyes

**"And she'll tease you, she'll unease you, **

**all the better just to please you.**

**She's precocious **

**and she knows just **

**what it takes to make a pro blush.**

**All the boys think she's a spy, **

**she's got Bette Davis eyes…"**

**-Kim Carnes, She's Got Bette Davis Eyes.**

* * *

**  
**

**9 AM**

**November 30th**

So this was it. The big one. The celebrity interview they had always warned him about. They told him about the death threats in the mail for both perp and prosecutors alike. Fan mail, pickets and protesters…Every psychologist, every lawyer, calling, protesting, offering their services for free, seeking the fame of an infamous client...

But what they had failed to warn, Jim Gordon thought with a sigh, is what to do with the accused who _hired them all? _Wearily he pushed open the double doors, made his way through the crowd of gathered attorneys and assistants, finally taking his seat in the middle of the hall, across from a serene-and _smoking_-Selena Kyle.

The girl was, he was startled to see, actually quite beautiful. Short dair hair framed her face nicely, adding feminine curve to her strong jaw. The rest of those features were elfin, with exaggerated lips, nose, and large green eyes. Her brows were thin and high, her lashes lustrous and long, and the color was quite captivating. This, if nothing else, marked her as the sister to Maggie Kyle.

But there the similarity-like the beauty-stopped. These eyes weren't dull and drugged, the marks of an addict. Nor were they cold and cruel, like many abuse victims he had met in SVU, child killers with no emotions, condemned to juvenile treatment centers and psyche wards for their emotional incompetence. They were bright, and quite clever. But there was more to them, a deep, inner sarcasm that just didn't give a shit if you lived or died.

And that was the infuriating part of it. Those eyes, taunting him from across the table, taunting them as they had her jons, luring and teasing, baiting and waiting. As if she knew something, knew something so secret and terribly tantalizing and would never share.

It also didn't help that Flass was with him. Staring boorishly at her like one of her aforementioned customers, gaping at her exposed cleavage as though he had never known women had breasts-

…not that they weren't nice ones. And not that she didn't know. Or strategically plan her ensemble accordingly. Gordon shook his head, mentally clearing images and thoughts even he was prone to, though it hurt his pride to admit. He sighed. Introduced himself per protocol: name, rank, purpose of interview. All the lawyers were silent, tense, pens held suspended over legal pads in suspense.

"Now, Miss Kyle, do you mind if this interview is recorded?"

She laughed, brought her booted feet up onto the table, blew an enticing puff of smoke like a stolen kiss. "Not at all, Mr. Gordon. But it's only fair to warn you that it'll cost you extra." Flass chuckled.

Was this really how it was going to go? "Would you please state your name."

She cocked her head, lips drawn in a playful smile. "I don't understand the question."

"State your full name, Miss! For court records-!" A hopeful attorney called, standing ever-so-slightly as to be seen. Kyle waved regally, leaning back in her chair, and took a long, long drag.

And Flass, on cue, took a long, long stare at her tits. Gordon stomped his partner's instep under the table, and the man cursed and glared reproachfully. _Loosen up, Gordie_, he mouthed.

"My name is whatever you _need_ it to be." She purred demurely, those lashes filtering down over her orb-like schlera. And the frustrating thing was he couldn't do a damn thing about it. Couldn't risk being the slightest bit rude, sexist, intimidating, mental cruelty…whatever the hell these lawyers were looking for to get their meal ticket off the hook.

"Ma'am, I need you to repeat for me that your name is Selena Kyle." He said firmly.

She sat up coyly, removed her thigh-high boots from the table top, replaced them with her elbows instead…and a vivid glance at her plummeting neck line. One which-Jim Gordon was quite proud to say-he only saw briefly before bringing his eyes to hers and keeping them there. Permanently. He would look neither up, down, right nor left for the duration of this farce of an interview.

…he only prayed it wouldn't be as long as he was dreading.

"Selena, huh?" She said, eyes evermore teasing. She knew why he was holding her gaze…and she found it…funny? "It's a little more exotic than I expected from you, Mr. Gordon. But then again…I've found the most _imaginative_ people can be found in the dullest of uniforms."

Silence. He blinked.

And goddamnit, he was _blushing-!_ Hot, hot scarlet eating up from collar to hairline, hands suddenly sweaty, heart thumping in his chest. Flass let out a hearty guffaw and slapped his back. "You know, you shrivled old prune, I'm really gonna enjoy this." He rose, cupped his hands to greasy face and shouted, "_Anybody here want some coffee?_"

Hands shot up across the auditorium with an approving roar of laughter, and from across the table, Kyle stretched with feline grace and winked. "We're all alone now baby. Might as well make ourselves …_comfortable_. "

Gordon sighed, removed his glasses and wiped his tired eyes, knowing the truth. It wouldn't be as long as he was dreading.

...no, this interview would last even longer.


	8. Fooled

**"Just what we all need, **

**More lies about a world that**

**Never was and never will be**

**Have you no shame? Don't you see me?**

**You know you've got everybody fooled."**

**-Evanescence, Everybody's Fool**

* * *

**12 PM**

**November 15h**

For a crime, you needed evidence.

Cold, hard evidence. Testimony was convincing, testimony could make or break even the most incriminating evidences but the fact remained there had be evidence for there to have been a crime. A dead person with no evidence of foul play was just that…a dead person. You could suspect murder, you could order and autopsy…but until you had something physical to hold in your hand, there was no proof of a foul play.

Rachel Dawes sighed, looked over her notes again. In fifteen minutes, she would have to explain that to a young man who by all appearances, sincerely believed he had been the victim of a serious sexual crime.

And he was either telling the truth…or one hell of an actor. And if he was acting…then fuck. This Kid could have the goddamned Oscar for leading male…or male leading on, whichever way you looked at it.

The ADA ripped desperately through the CPS file, searching for any clue that would help her. Still a minor but would have his majority within the year. Nearly an adult…but if you could trust psyche (and it was Gotham City and you never knew if you could trust psyche), he was barely more than a manipulative child.

Jimmy Connolly. The lost Angel of Mercy. Youngest of four surviving children of the Sisters of Mercy Foster Care fire not three years ago. For two years he had disappeared off the records, running way from his placement at another group home, and most of Gotham assumed he had gone the way of…

…of Wayne, as one talk-show host so blatantly put it. Rachel sniffed with that thought, massaged her temples, and hissed to herself that it was a hopeful analogy, damnit-! Beaten to death, frozen to death, rotting at the bottom of the river…died anonymously as one of thousands of homeless and unidentified drug users…and yet here he was, against all odds, alive.

…Which meant Bruce could be as well.

And the other three Angels? Maggie Kyle lay healing in Gotham General ICU, Rosalinda Juarez died in a meth lab explosion some months ago, and Achilles Dumas? The little runt had been incarcerated in maximum security at Arkham Asylum for multiple counts of murder, his young age and celebrity status the only thing standing between him and the death penalty.

No, of the four, Kyle's had been the only success story…she had started college, working on a double major in child psychology and social work.. The foster parents she had stayed with for the last year were devastated, and even her professors and academic advisor had stopped by the ICU ward to leave flowers, cards, and their respects.

There wasn't a citizen in Gotham-let alone the United States-who hadn't heard of her tragic attack. And perhaps that explained it. Jimmy Connolly. The Lost Angel. Two years missing and now here he was, at GCPD headquarters, suddenly seeking attention. Perhaps the fame of the initial atrocity had worn off. Perhaps he had a pathological problem….perhaps it was a desperate plea for emotional attention.

Perhaps, Rachel thought with a slow, sad shake of her head, this was some insane, perverted act of sibling rivalry. A sick, sick joke…

But the Kid was sure as hell convincing. His tears last night had broken her heart.

…yet that was before she'd seen the forsenics, or lack thereof. And which could she believe? An insistent, sobbing boy, or palpable, physical evidences? And that was the real bitchslap: she couldn't put stock in either. Her job was to be objective. Unbiased. Fair. Hear his testimony, offer counsel, and since he was a minor…charges had to be pressed whether they were ridiculous or not.

If CPS was right, if this man-child was as much of a master manipulator as Psyche claimed…well, she'd need all the help she could get.

And as if on cue, there came a smart rap on the doorframe. Dr. Harlene Quintzel let herself in, slim waist slipping through the slightly cracked door with ease. "Miss Dawes, are you ready?"

Which was, of course, her professional way of commenting _we're waiting, bitch, are you coming?_


	9. So Much Like Me

**Everybody knows**

**It hurts to grow up**

**And everybody does**

**It's so weird to be back here**

**Let me tell you what**

**The years go on and**

**We're still fighting it, we're still fighting it**

**And you're so much like me**

**I'm sorry**

**-Ben Folds, "Still Fighting It."**

* * *

**7 AM **

**November 4th**

Gateway's unusual location in Gotham City had it's pros and cons. The reconverted bar was lodged in a dilapidated tenant building, which hadn't been operated in years. It lacked electricity, the pipes had long since burst, and if it weren't for the still structurally sound foundations, it probably would have been torn down. Used for years as a tax credit for organized crime kingpins, it had finally been purchased by an optimistic realtor, looking to expand business in the Narrows section of town.

…but nobody wanted in. So five years later when a post-grad theater student approached the company, looking to renovate the lower floor, the (since then quite less) optimist realtor sealed the deal then and there.

Mani's Kid's Center was the only of it's kind in the Narrows, sure there were nicer ones across the bridge, with big, fat pensions from the Wayne Legacy Foundation, with tutors and retired teachers and Sylvan learning centers right on site.

But they were miles away. And these kids didn't have parents to take them there. Some didn't have shoes to walk in, and would have to have been provided with a free pair at the door…or, if the center they showed up at was particularly 'high class', they may have been turned away. Lice, scabies, even fleas…afraid that these poor kids from the Narrows would start peddling drugs to their own children…he'd seen all sorts of excuses, some more valid than others. Like parental enrollment, yeah, that was a laugh. Half these kids could go missing and mom or dad wouldn't notice until suddenly the booze stopped showing up on it's own.

Not to mention the majority of these kids didn't excel in school. Gateway was full of kids during the day, playing truant, already fallen behind, with no interest in trying further. Mani once asked if they should report them…

…but hell, as Santy said, they were better off, safer here, than in the streets, right? Sending them back to school would keep them there…for about a day. Then they'd run off again. And they wouldn't come back after being ratted out.

No, in the Narrows, Gateway could help these Kids. Attract them. Didn't shove education down their throats, didn't post "demographically" correct posters of smiling children all over the walls in gilt wooden frames whose cost could have fed a family of five for a week, hand them professionally printed fliers to advertise to all their friends.

But in the Narrows, unlike across the bridge, Gateway couldn't separate itself from the filth and crime and human garbage. Mani couldn't count the number of times he'd had to spray paint over crude, sexually explicit graffiti, gang symbols, run peddlers off the street corners…

And today, he knew, would be no exception.

* * *

"Hey, Santy, about time you showed up!" Mani joked from behind the bar, hands still stained with spray paint, starting the industrial coffee machine.

"Yeah, yeah." Kevin said. "Got stuck in traffic-minor accident on Wayne boulevard, no one died thank God-and then by the time I got to the bridge it was up, so I had to wait again-"

His blonde companion looked around the empty room. "Kid not here yet?"

Mani shook his head. Connolly hadn't show up for four days…unusual for him. Had any other kid missed a day, he wouldn't have thought anything of it. Even when trying to be responsible, kids left to their own devices…were still kids. But Connolly had been good. Same time, every morning, never late, never complaining. Sure, he was a shrimp, but he worked hard despite his size. Someone, somewhere, Mani mused, had done a good job with him.

Most of Gateway's kids didn't have reliable phones. Some said so upfront. Others lied. Often the numbers were either non-existent, or the lines were disconnected because mom's ex-boyfriend stopped paying the bills. Connolly was one of the honest ones. You wanted to get a hold of him? You left a note under the bar, and he'd get it next time he came in...not a terrible system for the older kids, but for the younger ones it left him worried.

...Hell, even the older ones. That Maggie Kyle wasn't much older than some of these kids here...

"Hasn't been here for four days." Mani replied, hiding the worry in his voice.

Santy was concerned. "Really? Any one say anything?"

The Mexican shook his head, placing the morning's first batch of muffins into the oven. "Nope."

"You think he's sick? Think we should check on him?"

That sent a warning light off in Mani's head, clear and shrill even over the jarring thunder of the nearby Transit Track. He had meant to speak with Kevin just the other day…

…now he had to.

"You know where he lives?" Delgado asked.

"Yeah, I-oh, hell." Kevin blushed. "I wasn't supposed to tell you that, was I?"

Don't ask, don't tell policy. If you don't tell me, they can't ask me later. Mani's first experience as a college volunteer had sickened him, the first time he heard a social worker say that to a kid. Confide in me if you want, but if you do, I might have to tell someone else and your life might get ever more royally fucked up than it is. It was protection for the kids in a way, but between adults it wasn't good enough. They were partners in this. Had to be able to trust each other explicitly in everything. Even the slightest taint of suspicion could shut a place like this down. And such a slight on a man's character…well, that was something you'd never get over.

Mani folded his arms. "No, you weren't supposed to _do_ that, not _not tell_ it, Santy, and you know it."

"Yeah, man, look, we just hang out. Kid needs a friend, you know?"

Mani smiled grimly. "Kevin, you've got any idea how ugly these things can get? You remember that cop? The one that went to prison after being accused for child molestation? You've got to be careful." Paltron vs. State. Ugly, brutal...and it turns out she'd been innocent all along. Didn't stop her reputation from being completely destroyed. And you just couldn't shake that shadow from 'beyond the shadow of a doubt.'

"Someone's got to do it. Someone's got to be there for these kids, and I'm sick of all the cowards too damn afraid to grow some balls and take a stand-"

"Speaking as one of said ballless cowards-"

"Ah, hell, Mani, I wasn't talkin' about you-"

"Yeah, man. You were. Look, I know how you feel. Goddamnit I wish I could play big brother to everyone who walks in here but I can't. It's too risky."

Now it was Santy's turn to cross his arms. "Too risky to change the life of a kid, huh?"

"Too risky to lose the ability to help _hundreds, _yes. I own this center, man. If I ever got accused of something like that…you know how that would go down. This place would lose it's license, it'd never open again. And you think any of those high class fancy ass philanthropists are gonna cross the river open one? You know I still can't get a goddamn grant from Legacy? Because our 'risk level' for lawsuit is too high?"

There were still a lot of stereotypes out there. Nasty ones. The people who thought any sort of sexual "deviancy" made you prone to more.

"They really come out and say that to you?"

Mani shook his head bitterly. "Not in so many words. But the interview was going great until they asked me why I started the shelter in the first place. After that-"

"God, Mani, did you have to tell them?"

Yeah. Five thousand bucks would have gone a lot towards Christmas this year. But you know what? He had been forced his entire childhood to be ashamed of what he was, and he wasn't going to live the rest of his life in fear. "And what was I supposed to do? Lie?"

"No, but you don't have to introduce yourself as 'Hi, my name's Mani Delgado and I'm gay-' " But one sad look silenced him. "Aw, hell, Mani, I'm sorry-"

"No. No you're fine. But I'm not ashamed of what I am. And if other people have a problem with it, that's their problem. And I'm not going to lie, be dishonest, or cover anything up. It's something people want to know, and it'd be misleading not to tell them if they ask. So I do. Upfront."

Damn, it would have been nice to have had that five thousand bucks, but if those pricks at Legacy couldn't get their act together…well, wasn't that what Gateway was for? Acceptance? And damned if he wouldn't take a cent of their money if it meant going against one of his two rules. It wasn't a pride thing…

…but it was a personal thing. There had been a third volunteer when they first started out. Turns out he was a complete homophobe, and when Mani had introduced his partner at the time, the guy had gone nuts. Spewed every crass, sexual insult he could, splashed beer on his face and yelled for the whole damn place that they were fags. He'd even gone so far as to write a letter to the editor telling people not to donate money to kids getting…how had the paper printed it? a**f**cked.

"Yeah. Yeah, I know." Santy sighed. "You're got a ton of responsibilities-"

"And you think I'm a coward, don't you." Mani asked, point blank.

Santy shook his head. Bit a thunbnail. "No…yeah. Sometimes yeah. I figure no one else is gonna be there for them, so if we don't give 'em a chance, who will? And I'm not gonna let some dumb government rule written by some chickenshit who's never spent any time around kids in his life fuck that up for them…You probably think I'm an irresponsible jackass."

Mani grinned. "Sometimes." They both chuckled and shook their heads, but the Latino's smile grew sad. "Thing is, Santy, if you want to mess with the rules, you have to be willing to take the consequences. What if some parent accuses you of touching their kid?"

Santy scowled. "Yeah? You seen the kids around here, man? When half the twelve year olds you meet are pregnant either by their dads or their mom's newest boyfriend cause she's too busy sleepin' off the crack…don't even get me started."

Mani frowned. Kevin had a valid point. Hell, if the parents here 1) actually gave a damn about their kids they wouldn't need to be here in the first place and 2) getting felt up at home would have been their first concern, not community service volunteers. Kevin Santy was a good man. Good friend. But he could be as goddamn stubborn and reckless as a blind mule.

Santy fingered his chin. "So. What the hell do I do now? Kid's gonna be as upset as hell-"

Mani shrugged uncomfortably. This was why he avoided the situation altogether. It was better not to start a relationship with a kid that you couldn't finish. How do you tell the little girl who's hugged you all her life that all of a sudden she's hitting puberty, and now she can't anymore? Kids didn't understand that stuff. They were already uncomfortable enough with their awkward, changing bodies…and that sort of rejection was just a slap in the face…

That's why the famous Delgado double handed high-five had been invented. You don't have to stop giving kids high fives when they hit 12. And if nothing changed, they didn't feel like they were being treated any different. So what to say? Connolly was almost 18. Practically an adult, though probably one of the most naïve kids he'd ever met…

But no. He was nearly 18, just a few short months away from an arbitrary age limit that said 'now it's okay to be friends.' He sighed.

"Look man, I can't pretend to know what's best, and I'm sure as shit not going to give you all the Disney follow your heart stuff, but do what you think you need to. Just…be careful. That's all."

Kevin nodded. "I know. I am." Until he had let it slip, Mani never would have guessed he was Connolly's friend on the outside, too. Sure, the two got along like old pals, but they'd been working the coffee bar for what? Over a year now? But now that he knew, he bit his lips to keep from retorting: _Really? You just ass-smacked the kid five days ago. _

Instead he softened it. "Yeah, well, it's like what Connolly said a few days ago. It makes it easier to say or do things. Accidentally."

Santy squinted, confused.

"I've been meaning to talk to you about this since Halloween. You slapped him on the ass while we were talking with Shaniqua."

"Aw, hell, man. I didn't even think about that…"

"Yeah, I could tell. That's why I didn't say anything. But I did notice."

"For me working here, being his pal, it's just like being back in high school, you know? Even junior high. That's just what you do-"

"But you can't do it here." Mani emphasized. "And if I were you, I'd break the habit altogether."

"Yeah. Yeah, that was dumb-ass mistake, if you pardon my pun. I try to make an extra effort to be careful here but I just wasn't thinking…Well, you're probably right. No, you _are_ right. I'm just going have to be more damn responsible. Even outside of here." Santy shook his head darkly in self-consternation. Then he grinned. "But you _would _notice stuff like that."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

Kevin grinned slyly. "You spend a lot more time thinking about other guy's asses."

"Speaking of asses, isn't it time you got your fat one out of here?" Mani growled good-naturedly.

"Hey, the day I start wearing _Dockers_ then you can call my ass fat." Kevin called as a parting shot, going to the entry way to unlock the door for the mornings first 'customers.' It was 8 AM. And a line of hungry kids had begun to form.

_Oh, white men and their terribly lame sense of fashion_, Mani chuckled, mind and heart at ease, glad to get that weighty conversation off his chest. In the brisk scent of coffee and over-baked muffins and hustle and bustle of the arriving kids, he forgot all about it.

He had no reason to suspect it come back to haunt him.


	10. Ooh, ooh here she comes

**"The woman is wild, a she-cat tamed by the purr of a Jaguar**

**Money's the matter**

**If you're in it for love, you ain't gonna get too far**

**Watch out boy she'll chew you up**

** She's a man-eater  
**

**I wouldn't if I were you**

**I know what she can do**

**She's deadly man, she could really rip your world apart**

**Mind over matter**

**Ooh, the beauty is there but a beast is in the heart." -Hall and Oates, _Maneater_**

* * *

**7:30**

**November 1st**

Shit.

It was 7:30. PM.

This was taking the morning after to whole new levels…Selena Kyle groaned, sitting up with a tremendous headache. Her green eyes were bleary, hair disheveled, and she felt a thousand years away from the self-confident, seductive young woman of last night's street corner.

"Where you goin'?" The jon asked, pulling her naked body back down next to his, spooning her. "You leavin' without sayin' goodbye?"

Inwardly she cursed, but she cuddled closer. Between the booze and the cigarettes…she couldn't get up now if she wanted to. Which, incidentally, she did.

The fucker might be rich enough to afford her services but damn if he wasn't as unimaginative as hell. Blow job. Typical male. And his personal hygiene had left much to be desired.

…as had his 'extraordinary and extensive knowledge of what stimulated the female creature.' God, a drunken orangutan on a fucking unicycle possessed more finesse.

"What's wrong?" Whatshisface asked, perceiving her obvious lack of interest in the deep kisses he left against the side of her neck. "Got a headache?"

"Not fucking kidding you. You were that good." Selena smirked, as the man's stroked ego threatened to explode.

"Aw, you're just saying that cause I paid you good."

"You callin' me a liar?" She asked coyly, sitting up and lighting another cigarette, blowing the first puff of sweet scented smoke with sultry charm. Stupid bastard. Ogling her like a sex goddess, fawning and infatuated with her femininity…males. Even the intelligent ones could be wooed into stupidity, even the most protective into complacence…

Like Jon Q. Public here, Selena mused, taking a long drag on the Marlboro medium. Dumb, dumb fuck. Assuming just because a woman was beautiful and good in bed she had no brains. His Gotham flat was loaded with illegal artwork, from hand carved ivory pipes to a zebra skin couch…and a gorilla hand ashtray. Now wasn't _that_ ironic…

But none of these emotions showed on her face, just sparkled menacingly in her green eyes. The sort of sparkle that could just-just-be misinterpreted for dazzling charm. He watched her closely as she sat up in bed, doused the cigarette in the primate's (Gorilla gorilla, not Homo sapiens) open palm, and begin to dress.

"Well, big boy," her jade eyes flickered down for a moment, with just the right amount of demure, " ….my shift is on."

A slight, pink sheen on that reverent face. "I can't convince you to stay, huh?"

Zipping her thigh-high boot, bare leg up on the bedside, large hands caressing up her thigh. She shook her head. "I've got a client."

"C'mon, baby, stay." A gentle kiss, that little plea, just a hint of desperation…sociologists, psychologists, they all tried to put a finger on what made a woman revert to prostitution. Some blamed drugs, sexual abuse, poor socioeconomic backgrounds, low self-esteem…but no. It was this moment. This moment right here, when you were adored like Aphrodite…

…Some loved the worship. Selena…loved the reversal. The predator, becoming the _prey._

."C'mon baby, I'll make it worth your time."

"Hmm…" She purred, pulling away, "You already have." Stupid bastard, she hissed, the richness of the African luxuries like bloodcurling screams in the dark.

"Wait-!" He ran after her, sheet wrapped around his waist, ape-ish hands fumbling with his snakeskin wallet, another two Benjamin Franklin's extended in the silence.

She stopped cold. "I have to go."

"Come back?" He panted. She shook her head, a slight bit of intrigue curling the corner of her lush lips, a glimmer in her eyes…

"This client needs me to stay the whole night." She said, slander hand on the half-open door. "But you know where to find me."

He grimaced sadly, the romance gone. She was a whore. A professional. Paid. "Hell," he mumbled with disappointment, "take it anyways."

Selena Kyle walked out into the night, matte leather overcoat a glaring sheen in the buzzing streetlights, stopping once in the street to turn, tip her sculpted chin to the 35th floor…

…a good whore never looked back. Learned not to regret. A good prostitute did, to inspire intrigue, add that spice of romance and reluctance that sent lonely men reeling to their knees…

A Man-eater simply contemplated her prey devoured.

She rounded the corner, Dan Murray of FBI Gotham City Branch already on speed dial on a pre-paid cell phone.


End file.
